I Can Almost See You
by MayCeaseToBe
Summary: There were stories, growing up. Stories that every sappy, impossibly in love couple would tell. 'When you meet your mate,' they said, 'you just know.' Tony's given up on the whole bondmate idea. But then he tackles Leroy Jethro Gibbs to the cold alley pavement, and the possibility of bonding literally smacks him in the face. The only problem is: Gibbs doesn't know.
1. Part I

**Part I: Gibbs**

Up until he is eight years old, Tony believes his full name is "Patatino Tony DiNozzo." He knows, but does not quite understand, that only his mother calls him "patatino" and that he should not keep writing it on his homework assignments. His teachers are frustrated. His mother finds it hilarious. She picks him up from school one day, dazzlingly bright with her blonde hair and long, white coat, and exclaims with a laugh, "Patatino, you're already a trouble maker! What will I do with you?"

She ruffles his brown hair and kisses his cheek. A diamond bracelet on her wrist blinds him. He wipes the lipstick off his cheek with a smile.

His father is less amused.

" _Bad enough he is what he is. Now he doesn't even know his name?"_

Tony hears this later, from the hallway outside his father's study. The beige wall against his shoulder is cold, but not as cold as the apprehension in his gut.

"What he is? He's your _son._ " His mother says. Her tone is so harsh that Tony hardly recognizes it. No motherly trills or airy softness. Just hard, jagged lines like glass. "You should love him, no matter what people say."

"How do you know what they say? You don't talk to anyone these days." There's a pause and a thunk. Tony thinks of his father's scotch glass, amber liquid sloshing inside like a tiny, angry sea. "They say we're _cursed_ Stella. Because of him. Because of _what. he. is_. And what are they gonna say now, huh? Patatino. You baby him!"

"I don't care." His mother's voice trembled. Glass shivering, about to break. "They can say what they want. You aren't drugging him. He's perfect."

"It's not drugs, Stell. It's suppressants."

"It's pills!"

"It's a way out! For all of us! You think they're gonna stop teasing him at school? It's just gonna get worse. He needs this."

"Stop it." Soft voice. Washed away edges. Beach and sand. "Stop acting like you care." A few clicks of heeled steps. A pause. A whisper. "Next time you want to complain, tell it to your girl of the week."

Tony barely has time to scramble out of the way before his mother rounds the doorframe. Her black heels stop just short of his red plaid slippers. She isn't crying, just tired-looking with wrinkles and shadows under her eyes. She sighs in a hopeless way when she sees Tony on the floor, and Tony-desperate to cheer her up—stands, takes her hand, and leads her to the movie room. They watch her favorite comedies until they fall asleep.

When she dies, he forgets things. His name-Patatino-goes first. And then the memory of her voice. The feel of her lipstick on his cheek. Her laugh. And slowly, his life before the endless days of little prescription pills fades into something that might've once been a dream.

What he does remember is: he's cursed.

* * *

There were stories, growing up. Stories that every sappy, impossibly in love couple would tell. _When you meet your mate_ , they said, _you just know._

Biologically, that's sort of true. One person scents the pheromones on the other, and then their bodies react in a haze of horomones and thus—bonding happens. But in the modern times, bondmates don't always end up loving each other, and married couples don't always bond.

And then there's Tony, the outlier, the cursed (apparently).

Three weeks before his second anniversary at Baltimore P.D., he remembers these stories while chasing down a perp. He's running down the street, in a black coat and baggy jeans, tube socks and sneakers. It's grey skies. Cold as balls. The man he's chasing is dressed like a hobo—ratty red beanie and rattier grey jacket. Tony expects the guy to smell like trash and drugs, but in the moment after Tony screams,

"You can't out-run me! I'm wearing tube socks!"

-there's a scent in the air. A scent that's warm like wood and bitter like pine. A scent that makes Tony's gut pull sharply in warning, and he knows, just before he dives onto the man's back and pins him down to the cold alley pavement, that he is irrevocably fucked.

The stories were true. He can feel it in the way his body warms and brain goes half dead with something between shock and desire. His limbs tremble to kneel, submit, bare his neck and let the alpha take him any way he wants. Tony shakes visibly with the effort to reign himself in against the impulse, which is why the man gets a punch in before Tony puts a gun in the guy's face. The man, with husky blue eyes and Richard Gere hair, actually smirks a little in amusement.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care because while Tony is getting run over by a semi-truck of pheromones, the man can't scent Tony at all.

Because Tony isn't an omega.

He is, but he isn't. But he is.

It's complicated.

And it stays that way for a long fucking time.

* * *

"Well, it's confirmed," he tells his partner, Danny, when they're back at the precinct. Everything is loud and bustling around their two tiny wooden desks, but Tony's focus is entirely on the man reclining in the short chair next to him. "He's a cop. A Navy cop. Special agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

The not-dirtbag leans back and grins with so much alpha confidence that his over-sized canines gleam in the dim precinct lights. Alpha fangs, generally, are supposed to retreat when the alpha isn't using them, but some alphas have fangs so large that they can't retract all the way. Tony studiously ignores the jokes running through his head— _you know they say if his fangs are big, then so is his—_ and smiles wide, confident, and demeaning. He mirrors Gibbs' stance, leans back and spreads his knees open in a relaxed gesture. It's a fight. His body doesn't naturally want to do this, especially not with Gibbs' scent still making Tony warm, half-hard, and jittery. But Tony's been fighting his own instincts for so long that he's not actually sure what would happen if he let go.

"So what am I supposed to call you special agent...Leroy? Jethro." he teases, asserting dominance with condescension. "It's a little Beverly Hillbillies. Gibbs it is I guess.""

The alpha's face turns stern, and Tony realizes that he's only barely ruffled the man's feathers. Most people would be punching Tony by now. Especially feds, who think they're better than everybody.

There's a squabble between them after that, a small alpha piss match over who's stepping into whose case, and Tony scrabbles to keep up with Gibbs' confidence until somehow they've agreed to share.

Tony gets the bad guy in the end, but it's not the victory that he wants it to be. There's no victory in realizing that the dirtbag knows his partner, has made _deals_ with his partner. There's no victory in realizing that the people who are supposed to love and confide in him don't actually trust him at all.

And the kicker is: Tony doesn't blame them, anymore.

Since when has _he_ told anyone the truth?

But the point of it all isn't that Tony's been kicked in the nuts (again), nor that he's going to have to transfer precincts (again). The point is that Gibbs is there when Tony's life shatters ( _again_ ) and instead of patting him on the shoulder, instead of pity, instead of just walking casually out of Tony's life like so many people before—Gibbs looks at him with something like approval and offers him a job.

That's the first time Tony thinks that maybe this isn't just biology after all.


	2. Part II

**Part II. The Times Tony Could Have Told Gibbs**

1\. He and Gibbs are running through wet alleys, wetter sidewalks, wetter streets. The night makes it hard to see the deeper puddles, and Tony's brand new Italian leather shoes are getting more ruined the farther they run. Tony is, frankly, pissed. He's been making more of an effort to dress nicer since he started working with Gibbs, and Gibbs has noticed. He seems more confused than approving, but Tony will take all the attention he can get. Tony's turned pretty pathetic, honestly. But it's not like there's a guidebook on telling your boss that you're meant to be together, and oh-yeah-by-the-way-I'm-an-omega.

The perp trips on a curb three blocks down from where they started. Tony tackles him because fuck it, why not, his shoes are ruined anyway, and says, "You fucked up my Armani, asshole."

The dirtbag, a lean man with a mousey face, laughs as Tony cuffs him. "What kinda alpha are you, man?"

And it would be so easy for Tony to say _I'm not_. He and Gibbs have only been working together for a few weeks. Should he have said something by now? Yeah, probably. But Gibbs has never asked, never assumed-

"He's the alpha putting you under arrest, _man_." Gibbs says with a wry grin. His hands casually put his gun back in the holster.

Tony feels something in himself crumple, but he doesn't think about it. He smiles, smiles smiles.

* * *

2\. They're doing interviews. It's the middle of the day in the middle of nowhere Virginia, and it's hot as balls. Neither Tony nor Gibbs are very happy about anything. Their murder victim, a dead marine, was found in his home that morning, and even though the man lived in a town small enough to be walked across in a few hours, none of his neighbors seem to know anything about him. They're liars, all of them, but it's not like Tony and Gibbs can do much about it until they get some proof.

Their next-to-last stop is a man at the edge of town, Guster Burman, who lives in an old red ranch house that looks like it might've been through a few tornadoes in its time. The yard isn't much better—littered with half-fixed cars and torn up furniture. Tony and Gibbs actually have to step over a toppled blue armchair just to get to the front door. Guster is waiting for them on the porch. He's a burly, surprisingly attractive middle-aged alpha with brown tufts of hair covering his bare chest. His arms are huge and bulging with muscles, and Tony kind of hates himself for finding it all basely appealing. He has a lumberjack fetish, apparently. Who knew?

Guster, like his neighbors, isn't very forthcoming about the dead marine a few houses down. His responses seems to be limited to a grunt of, "Don't know."

It only takes a few minutes of this bullshit before Tony—fed up, hot, sweating, and looking for a fight—presses all the man's buttons he can find. 'Big, bad, tough' alphas always have the same ones. Performance anxiety. Domination anxiety. Dick size. Tony hits all of them in less than a minute.

Guster falls for it. His lips curl and he takes an angry step into Tony's space. "That _jackass_ deserved to die!"

Tony smirks. "I thought you didn't know him?"

Guster's fangs sink out in threat, and before Tony can even blink, Gibbs is shoving the man back and placing himself between them. Tony can tell, by the stiffening of his shoulders, that Gibbs is surprised by his own actions. For all he knows, Tony is an alpha who's capable of taking care of himself. There's no reason Gibbs' instincts should act up to protect him, as if Tony is an omega, as if Tony is _his_.

Gibbs plays it cool, says, "Give me a reason not to charge you with obstruction of justice for lying to a federal agent."

Which is a load of bullshit, really. But Guster doesn't know that. He spills what he knows and gives them a lead. When they're back in the car, Gibbs still holds himself rigid with discomfort and caution. Tony wants to say, _I'm sorry. I'm an omega. You're not going crazy._ But instead he smirks a little and says teasingly, "If you don't talk about it, I won't talk about it."

Gibbs' shoulders relax, finally. "Talk about what, DiNozzo?"

Tony laughs, and just like that, things go back to normal.

* * *

3\. It's a Thursday afternoon. Summer has fully set in, so the weather in D.C. Is bright, green, gold, and gorgeous. The wide, white sidewalks gleam and the trees planted on those sidewalks shiver with the breezes from passing cabs. It's a beautiful day, and even though Gibbs has been standing at the wide windows of NCIS for almost one hour, Tony is sure that he hasn't noticed any of it. His divorce was finalized that morning. He hasn't held a lot of love for his third wife near the end, but the failure of another marriage has seemed to hit him hard anyway. He's been tense and angry all day, prone to more snipes and glares than usual. He's got a look in his eye and a scent in his pheromones that says he really wants to fuck or hit someone and he's not really picky as to which.

Tony watches him closely all day, keeping uncharacteristically quiet and bouncing his leg nervously under his desk. He waits until they hit a roadblock in their case (waiting on Abby with the evidence) to ask, "Wanna spar?"

Gibbs grunts vaguely and darts towards his desk to grab his sweats before Tony can even think to stand.

Later, when Tony is folded like a very painful pretzel, he regrets saying anything. Gibbs is giving all he's got and that's about 170% more than anything Tony has to give. He ends up on the ground more times than he can count, and he only comes close to getting Gibbs once. It's not enough, and Tony knows it, but he can't give Gibbs anything else without coming clean, and how would Gibbs ever trust him again?

So when Gibbs gets Tony on the ground for something like the twentieth time, pins Tony on his back with his legs spread and arms locked above his head, and looks at Tony—who's submitting (by force, but still)—with the most adorably confused expression, Tony can't say anything. He wants to say the truth ( _It's alright if you like me_ ) or maybe even a lie ( _I was only hiding because of your wife_ ), but instead he says, "Uncle, Gibbs. Come on."

And he lets Gibbs let him go. He lets Gibbs call it a night. Lets him leave. And he tries not to think about all that pent up frustration finding its way to some redhead in a bar who probably deserves him more then Tony anyway.

* * *

4\. It's autumn but still warm. Or—it _was_ warm before they got in the air. The AMC planes aren't big on central heating, so Tony and Gibbs just have to layer up and tough it out until they get wherever they're going, which in this case is a navy ship somewhere in the Atlantic. The planes aren't exactly gentle, so when it's time to take his suppressants, Tony somehow has to do it while clinging to an orange net and holding a water bottle.

It doesn't go as planned.

One bad bout of turbulence and Tony drops the pill, drops the bottle, and drops himself. Gibbs is not impressed, but he should be. Tony manages to tumble quickly enough to catch up with his bouncing pill, grab it, then crawl his way back. He's without water now, but he still grins as he fumbles his way back up to his canvas seat. Gibbs glares at him.

"What?" Tony asks. "You know how much these cost?"

He holds up the pill then pops it in his mouth. The bitter taste travels all the way down his throat.

Gibbs grimaces. "Why do you take those things?"

Gibbs is old-fashioned. He's not going to be prejudiced against Tony for taking them, but he doesn't understand it either. He doesn't understand hiding from who you are, because he's Gibbs and he's brave and he could be an omega with the sweetest, most harmless scent and still make the toughest of marines cry.

Tony just smiles.

It's easier for him to lie, now. It's easier for him to pass up the truth.

It's easier for him to say, "Makes my skin look good!"

But it's not so easy for him to see Gibbs roll his eyes and believe him, trust him, and think that Tony wouldn't lie.

* * *

5\. Tony hates winter. Everything is cold and dead and cold and dark and _cold_. And apparently, it's also the season of busted central heating. Tony wakes up one morning almost two hours before his alarm is set to go off, and it's because he's shivering too hard to stay asleep. It's snowing outside, and his radiator is busted. He can see his own breath in his apartment. He calls the building manager and gets an estimate of a _week_ before the damn thing can be fixed. He knows Gibbs won't be happy if he gets caught, but Tony packs a duffel anyway and prepares to try living at the office.

He makes it for three hours before Gibbs walks in, finds him sleeping at his desk, and shouts, "DiNozzo! Somethin' wrong with your place?"

And Tony—well, he can lie to Gibbs about that one thing, but he can't bring himself to lie about anything else.

Somehow, and he's pretty sure even Gibbs himself doesn't know how, this ends with Tony crashing at Gibbs' house. He's never been there before, and it's not what he was expecting. Tony's always pictured Gibbs living in a pristine white block of a house with a manicured lawn, a KEEP OUT sign, and maybe some tripwire by the front door. But instead it's a red house with a slightly unkempt lawn that, if Tony didn't know better, should scream 'Family.' It makes Tony's chest ache on sight. He dreamed of living in a house like that, when he was a kid. But he also dreamed of a dad who cares and a mom who's happy and alive. Tony should be used to not getting what he wants, by now.

The inside of the house makes more sense. It's like a bachelor pad if the bachelor is woefully disconnected from society and spends an inordinate amount of time at Lowe's. Which, yeah, that's Gibbs. There's a ratty green couch in the living room that's covered in blankets and one pillow, which Tony is pretty sure means that Gibbs has been sleeping there. His coffee table looks like it's been used as a night stand—boring book, reading glasses, cup of water—and the tv looks like it's been imported from the 1970's.

Tony raises an eyebrow at Gibbs, who shrugs.

"I need a new bed," Gibbs says gruffly.

Tony hums. "Yeah. Or a new bed partner."

Gibbs' hand twitches irritably, but the head slap never comes. Instead he gives a pained sigh and says, "You want some bourbon?"

"Sure. It'll warm me up. I'm still not over waking up with frost bite." He shivers for emphasis.

Gibbs points to the ceiling and walks into the kitchen. "Guest bedroom is upstairs on the left. Don't make a mess."

Because Tony is a little shit who can't mind his own business (see: Detective), he opens not just the door on the left, but the two on the right as well. The extra bedroom is empty except for dusty cardboard boxes and what looks like faded pink wallpaper. The master bedroom is utilitarian but nice—large bed, nice red quilt, old nightstand, hope chest. Tony sets his duffle on the bed. He glances back to the hallway to make sure Gibbs hasn't sneaked up on him (which is stupid—he said Tony can have the room, didn't he?), then he launches himself on the need-a-new-bed. It's not bad, actually. Tony sinks down a little, but not enough for the back problems Gibbs claims. The quilt is soft, too, and smells like the cedar scent which seems to permeate the whole house. Tony's gripped with a feeling, then. It's warm and strange and pulls at him to stay right where he is. Instinctively, and reluctantly, he knows what this means.

This is what home feels like.

Tony changes into jeans and a blue long-sleeved tee and makes his way back downstairs. He doesn't find Gibbs in the living room nor the kitchen, so he follows the sound of scraping and the strengthening scent of wood into the basement. It's dim but not dark—a large, square room with two tiny windows, a single dangling light, and cement floors hidden under cluttered workbenches and whatever large monstrosity Gibbs is building. Curved, pale wood planks are set up in the center of the room like a skeleton, and Gibbs is sanding one of them with a sharp, flat tool in his hands. Tony pauses halfway down the basement steps to take it all in, uncertainty creeping over his skin.

"Bourbon's on the bench, DiNozzo," Gibbs says without looking up.

Tony glances to the cluttered bench and sees a bourbon bottle and two dirty glasses set near the edge. One glass is already half full. Tony steps down into the basement and, while he pours himself a single, says, "I finally get it."

He takes a sip. Grimaces. Gibbs glances at him harshly. "Get what?"

Tony holds the glass' rim by his fingertips and leans casually against the bench. "Why you smell like wood all the time."

Gibbs finally pauses his sanding to look at Tony fully. "Didn't know it was that bad."

"It's not. It's—" Tony brushes the side of his nose with one thumb and smiles shyly. "I've got a strong nose, and it mixes really well with your—uh, well—scent. Makes it seems stronger, I guess."

Gibbs smirks at him in the way he does when he thinks Tony is acting like an adorable little kid. It's a rare smirk, but a good one. "Good to know."

He goes back to sanding, and Tony glances curiously at the skeleton before him. It reminds him of something he's seen before, at a port where his father's friends would keep their yachts.

"A boat?" Tony asks.

Gibbs hums affirmatively.

Tony doesn't ask why. He knows why. Gibbs is lonely and needs a hobby. Instead he asks, "Why haven't you mentioned it?"

Gibbs shrugs. Wipes off the wood. Keeps sanding. "Didn't come up."

Tony snorts and smirks wryly. "So if I keep a secret that 'doesn't come up,' you'll be okay with that?"

"Yep," Gibbs says.

And like so many other times, it's at the tip of Tony's tongue. The smell of home and Gibbs and the tingle of bourbon is all fogging his brain. He might do it. He might say it.

"Why, you got a secret, DiNozzo?"

And it's like pulling puppet strings for Tony to smile and say, "Nope."

Gibbs laughs. "Didn't think so."

Tony chuckles and hides the the strain of his smile with another sip.


	3. Part III

**Part III. The Times Tony Could Have Told Anyone Else**

1\. Tony meets Abby on a Tuesday. He will, in the future, always know this because Abby likes to draw star charts, and she will analyze what it means that Tony is a Cancer and she is an Aries and they both happened to meet at 2pm on a Tuesday, and she will find that it is a very good thing. But in the moment, it's a cold and dreary Tuesday morning, and all Tony knows is that Abby is the evidence girl and if he's mean to her, Gibbs will probably kill him. He brings her a Caf-pow, as instructed, and tries not to stare at all the black happening in her outfit. It's easy to ignore. When Abby smiles, and the whole room narrows down to the sweetness of her pale, high cheeks and her sparkling green eyes. She smells cool and flowery, like a fresh rose in rain. Independent. But nice.

"The new guy knows to bring me sweets! Gibbs _does_ care." She says, snatching the Caf-pow out of Tony's hand.

Tony smirks wryly. "That's an understatement. You know he read me the riot act before I came down here? Like I'm a punk kid about to take his daughter on a date."

Abby smiles even wider around the Caf-pow straw. "That's because I'm family, and _you_ have a reputation. I've heard all about your slick moves, mister."

"All rumors." Which is mostly true. Tony flirts, because he's good at it, but he doesn't have any follow through. Tony holds his hands up innocently, then stuffs them back in his pockets. "Are you and Gibbs really that close?"

"Yup!" Abby taps the black dog collar on her neck. It's leather, wide, with stainless steel studs. "I'm his pack."

The pack thing doesn't surprise Tony. It's pretty common for people to make 'packs' or 'families' in the work place. Tony's never stuck around anywhere long enough to be in one, but he knows the gist of how it works. There's almost always a head alpha, to whom everyone else defers, and it's the alpha's job to look after (or boss around) the others. The members of the pack usually run most or all life decisions and happenings by their alpha for approval or help. That's basically what everyone here has to do with Gibbs anyway, so Tony can see it happening.

But no, what surprises him is the collar. It's an old, out-dated custom for an omega to wear a collar. It was a trend for omegas to wear them up until the 1960's, when omegist rights got traction again, to show that they 'belong' to an alpha, and it could mean anything from 'check with my dad first' to 'I'm married.' Tony's pretty sure it's a dad thing with Gibbs and Abby. Pretty sure. Hopes.

"Gibbs doesn't seem like the type to collar an omega."

"Oh, he's not!" Abby waves her hands. "It was my idea. I like belonging to someone, you know? My parents are gone, and it just...makes me feel not so alone."

Tony reaches out with one hand and pauses. Glances to Abby. "Can I?"

Abby preens with a little shimmy and nods once. Tony gently runs his fingers over the collar, surprised by how soft it is. Not real leather, but a good imitation. Abby's too kind, he supposes, to buy the real thing. Or maybe Gibbs bought it for her. She _is_ his, after all. In a way that's more than Tony can ever be. There are more questions on his mind. _Would Gibbs take me, do you think? How do I tell him? Can you help me figure this out?_ But he's not sure how to say them out loud.

Something must show on his face, because Abby tilts her head to the side and smiles curiously. "What?"

Tony smiles gently and retracts his hand. He says, sincerely, "It's nice."

Abby's smile widens.

* * *

2\. Caitlin Todd comes into the fray suddenly and unexpectedly, but she's welcome, as far as Tony is concerned. She's the kind of omega he likes to hang around—sassy, spunky, dangerous, kind, and smells as fresh as jasmine. The problem is, she thinks Tony is a sleezy dirtbag. Which he kind of is. He can't help that his humor has aligned with his 'typical alpha' persona, and he can't help that people often don't think that he's joking when he is. Still, he likes Kate, even though she makes him extremely nervous right off the bat by saying, "Why do you submit to Gibbs like that?"

They're on the not-airforce-one, a few hours after meeting for the first time, and they're waiting for the plane to get closer to D.C. before Tony makes a sneaky switch around with their dead body. Kate is lying on the couch, which Tony still finds pretty amazing because there's a _couch_ on a _plane_ , and he's leaning against the opposite wall, just under the staircase to the cockpit. Gibbs is talking to the NCIS director somewhere upstairs. When she asks the question, Tony glances nervously around for Gibbs before replying.

"What do you mean?" Playing dumb is always the best tactic. But that doesn't stop his gloved hands squeezing nervously over the camera draped around his neck.

Kate gives him a stern look. It doesn't have much effect. Tony thinks her freckles are adorable and the way she stood up to Gibbs earlier was like watching a mouse stand up to a lion. She's not a threat, but she's trying to be. "Come on. You know what I mean. You follow him around like a puppy. You're a momega, right?"

Tony blinks. His mind goes blank. No one's ever called him out before. No one's ever _noticed_ before. Is his game slipping? Has Gibbs noticed?

Tony, making a tactical decision because he doesn't even know this girl, slowly smiles then laughs. "No, honey. Not even close."

Kate's eyebrows raise. The freckles on her forehead scrunch. "I'm not your honey, honey. And I've never seen an alpha submit that easily. Not even to his boss."

Tony's grin turns sharp, mean. "You'll see it happen a lot when Gibbs is around. I don't know if you've noticed, but his scent is kind of terrifying."

Kate's frown almost turns into a confused sneer. "You're afraid of him?"

Tony snorts. He fiddles with the camera and says, "I respect him. He's my partner, and even if I haven't been formally invited or anything, he's my pack alpha. There's no sense in butting heads with your alpha over something like pride."

Kate scrutinizes him for a moment before her gaze softens and she relaxes more into the couch. "That's sweet, Tony."

"Yeah, DiNozzo." Tony jumps and looks up to see Gibbs leaning over the staircase, grinning. "I didn't know you cared."

Tony grimaces uncomfortably and whines a little before saying, "I'm gonna go check on the body."

Kate laughs as he leaves.

* * *

3\. The thing about Kate is: she doesn't let it go.

She's a profiler, and somehow, without even knowing it, Tony keeps giving himself away. Submissive tilts of his head when Gibbs gives him an order, the way he rests his wrists on his desk—underside up and vulnerable, the way he follows Gibbs from behind and presses himself close, as if seeking comfort, all the time. Kate's eyes squint judgingly every time it happens, and Tony isn't sure how to explain it all away beyond _it's Gibbs._ Which is an excuse she takes seriously. Tony really doesn't submit for anyone else. He's pretty sure he's broken, in that respect. His instinct is to fight his own instincts. He's messed up. But he trusts Gibbs so much that sometimes he can't help himself.

And then McGee comes along, and Kate turns her momega theory into a way of teasing Tony. She likes how mean he is to McGee most of the time, but when she gets tired of it, she'll tease Tony just to even out the playing field. One time, she even comes dangerously close to outing him.

They're discussing a hostile witness they just dragged into interrogation. The guy had gone hyper-alpha and bared his fangs and then tried to take out poor little McGee, whose cute little fangs couldn't scare a bunny rabbit. Tony's been teasing him about it all morning, but then Kate, while calmly filling out paperwork at her desk, says, "You know, I've never noticed till now, but Tony's never fanged anybody."

McGee frowns doubtfully. "Sure he has...hasn't he?"

Tony sneers a little in annoyance. Damn Kate and her keen eyes. He bites out, "Real alphas don't need to show their fangs, McGee."

Kate smirks and twirls her pen. "Uh huh. Sure."

"I'm serious," Tony says. "When have you ever seen Gibbs bare his fangs?"

"All the..." Kate pauses. Her eyes widen. "Oh my god."

"See? Never. It always seems like he is, 'cause his fangs are so damn big, but he never actually does it." It's something Tony really admires about the man, actually. And it's part of the reason Tony's never felt threatened by him. Gibbs never postures. Never presses too hard. He coaxes people instead.

Kate's expression slowly morphs from shock to stern disbelief. "So your excuse is that you're modeling yourself after Gibbs?"

Tony grins broadly. "Like every alpha should."

An easy lie, because he believes it.

"Uh huh." McGee doesn't look convinced. "I bet they're small."

Tony frowns. "Nobody asked you, McGeek."

He's lucky, so lucky, that Gibbs comes back a second later and wraps them back into the case. Kate and McGee, forgetting about it, don't bring it up again. He's not sure he could have lied his way out of having no fangs to show them, anyway.

* * *

4\. There's a momega petty officer laying on a slab, and it's not the first time it's happened and it won't be the last, but it's the first time Tony's seeing it with Ducky. The autopsy chill sinks through Tony's maroon sweater and straight to his bones, and the rotting smell still makes him nauseous, even if he's been trained not to hurl. He has to focus on Ducky's faint, fresh, and harmless alpha scent, pleasantly bitter, like unsweetened tea, to keep his mind fully present. Ducky bends over the man's open chest cavity and points, with a blood-covered and gloved hand, to where the bullet cracked a rib before sinking into the man's heart.

"It's a terrible pity, this violence," Ducky says. He nods a little to himself and glances up to the petty officer's pale face. "Jethro said you interviewed his crewmates, and he told me of their... _adverse_ feelings for our petty officer here. I don't understand it, Anthony. Did you know, momegas have always been allowed in combat? In Sparta they were the most highly valued mates because they were as strong and physically capable as alphas. Their only downfall is their rarity. People will never learn to accept what they do not understand."

"They were considered cursed in Rome," Tony says, because it feels good to talk about it. He's never talked about it. Not with anyone.

Ducky looks up at him in surprise, eyebrows raising up into his autopsy cap. "That is correct! And it was—and still is, unfortunately—a popular belief throughout many European countries. Momegas have a tendency for high-risk pregnancies, which was not favorable in the times of elementary medical care. The easiest explanation, up until science could prove otherwise, was that momegas were simply cursed by the Gods."

Tony folds his arms and clutches at his biceps, and Ducky's bespectacled gaze flicks over Tony's face with something like understanding. "Your family is Italian, correct? Do they hold to those old beliefs?"

Tony smirks a little. He shrugs. "Doesn't apply to me, but I do have a cousin nobody talks about."

Which is true. His cousin Caspian, in Italy, is never mentioned when Tony gets letters and cards from his family. Tony only knows that he exists because he remembers playing with Cas every summer when he was little, up until his mom died. Tony was probably considered a dirty little secret as well, now that he thinks about it. He and Cas never left their uncle's property when they visited. But when Tony started taking suppressants, his family warmed to him. They were willing to forget that he wasn't born an alpha. They were willing to force him into being someone else.

"That's a shame," Ducky says wearily. He glances back down to the petty officer and gently pats the man's stiff arm. "I wish more people would realize that the reproductive organs we are, or are not, born with do not affect who we grow to be as a person, nor does it effect the cosmos nor the anger of Gods. We are simply born. Why hate someone for that?"

Tony doesn't know what to say. These are words he's never heard before. His grip on his biceps tightens and his jaw clenches. The words ring through his head and put a pain in his chest. _Why hate someone for that?_

"I don't know," he says quietly. "I'll let you know when I find out."


	4. Part IV

**Part IV: The Plague.**

When Tony tries to remember the time during his mother's illness, all he can see are white hospital rooms and tiny televisions that only come through in black and white. He remembers the smell of disinfectant. He remembers the feel of his mother's cold fingers curled around the palm of his hand. And although he can't remember what it looked like—not the color nor curve of her lips—he remembers that she smiled. Four long months of misery and impending death, and she always, always smiled.

* * *

There's a letter. Tiny. White paper. Red lipstick kiss on the seal. Tony nabs it out of McGee's hand just to tease him. It's not addressed, so he assumes it's from a wayward soul who thinks that loving Gibbs is a good idea (even though there are three unbonded ex-wives and Tony to prove otherwise). But Gibbs doesn't say anything to stop him, and the pout on McGee's face makes Tony smile. He fans himself with the little envelope as he saunters over to his desk. It smells like perfume. Flowery. Too sweet. He rips open one side and blows to pop it open.

The next moment, it's snowing.

The white dust hovers in the air like a cloud, and Tony breathes in just before his brain catches up and he realizes, with a bitter sense of dread, what he's just done. He glances to Gibbs, to make sure he's seen it, then places the letter down on his desk while Gibbs announces to the room that Tony's just fucked up.

That's all he can think, throughout the whole ordeal. _I fucked up. I fucked up._

* * *

There are white-knuckle grips. Pressed lips. Lines of tension in the corner of even Gibbs' own blue eyes. But then there's Tony. Relaxed and pressing buttons and swinging his damn legs over the edge of the autopsy slab like a little kid. The whole scene makes Gibbs' gut churn and itch. His team, sitting on slabs, waiting to hear if one of them will be lying on it soon. And the most worrying thing about it isn't the pale faces or watery, fearful eyes. It's Tony's smile when he looks at Gibbs, like he's stuck somewhere between guilt and relief.

Because he knows, just like Gibbs knows, who is going to be infected. And Gibbs' chest aches knowing that Tony's just glad it isn't Gibbs.

* * *

When two orange jumpsuit goons from the CDC show up to take Tony away, Gibbs doesn't hesitate to make Kate go with him. She argues, of course she does, but it isn't a debate. Gibbs can't do what he needs if he thinks Tony is out there dying alone. He can't leave him like that. The marine in him couldn't stand it. He tries to tell Kate, with his eyes: _Keep him occupied. Remind him that he's not forgotten. Tony needs reminding. Always has. Please._

Gibbs can't place how he feels about DiNozzo because it's never been easy, with that kid. Gibbs' instincts go haywire against his brain half the time, in a way that they haven't since a lifetime ago, when a redhead omega caught him being chivalrous at the train station and told him under no uncertain terms was he to help her with her bags. But that comparison- that doesn't make sense. It's _never_ made sense. DiNozzo isn't Shannon. He shouldn't even be close to Shannon. He's an alpha.

But.

Still.

When Tony is escorted out the back autopsy door, Gibbs feels an unsettling anxiety crawl down his spine, as if he's about to lose everything all over again.

He _has_ to solve this case.

Even if he has to do it from the damn four walls of autopsy.

* * *

The worst part for Tony, surprisingly, isn't the plague. Tony is certain from the moment he opens the letter that he's probably going to kick the bucket in a very _28 Days Later_ kind of way. The worst part is actually what Dr. Pitt says some time before they know it's the plague that he's got. The doc says it non-nonchalantly, as if it doesn't matter at all.

"I've updated Doctor Mallard on your status. So far, you're a healthy male omega. Blood cultures should come through in a couple hours, then we'll know for sure if we can let you go."

Tony's stunned for a moment. He forgets to smile. He winces, actually, before he asks, "You told him I'm a momega?"

And even Kate, who's been pacing across the room, stops dead.

Pitt's eyebrows frown. "He didn't know?"

And that is, actually, when Tony is certain he's not getting out of this alive.

* * *

"I talked to a doctor Brad Pitt," Ducky says, through the tiny TV screens linking Gibbs to Abby's lab. Gibbs can't see how this is anything important. They have a plague virus which may or may not have gone through the post office and may or may not have survived irradiation, and all Ducky has to say is that he talked to _Brad Pitt?_

"You're kidding," Abby says. And any other day, that's all it takes to get Ducky off track, but Ducky stays rooted in front of the screen, face grave, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. His silence makes everyone else pause.

"What is it, Duck?" Gibbs asks. Apprehension is cold in his gut, like ice. Tony can't have died already. They read the letter. 32 hours. They have time. They have _time_.

Ducky clears his throat a little and shuffles his feet. "The doctor said something quite interesting over the phone. I thought I must have misheard him at first, but...Jethro, are you aware that Anthony's a male omega?"

The reaction isn't from Gibbs. It's McGee and Abby, at the same time, saying, " _What?_ "

But Gibbs can't process it. Not right now. Not in this mess.

Case first. Tony first. The penny can drop later.

"I'm coming up," Gibbs says.

He can't stay in autopsy anymore. He needs to move. He needs to _fix this_.

* * *

Kate is hovering. She's got a medical mask on her face and a glint in her eye that Tony isn't sure is reserved for him or the next doctor who asks her to leave. Tony could be killing her right now, and she's still hovering. He's not sure if that's a good thing. She puts her hands on her blue-pajama-clad hips. (Not a good thing, then.)

"You could have told us, you know," she says. Her frown isn't visible, but it's there.

Tony, for once, is too tired to lie. He's dying. Why not give the truth?

He shrugs, half-hearted and with a bit of a smile. "I don't know how."

Kate's eyebrows scrunch. "How what?"

Tony's next breath comes in ragged. He coughs a little to clear his throat, then says, "I've never told anyone before."

Kate scoffs so hard her shoulders jump.

"No one?"

Tony's lips quirk. It's kind of funny, actually. He didn't even mean to keep it going this long.

"Nope."

Kate's eyebrows are furrowing themselves into a uni-brow. He wants to tell her this. Maybe she'll elbow him and they'll go back to normal. He doesn't know how to fix these things—things that matter.

But then she says, "You still could have told us."

And takes his hand. Grips it tight as Tony starts to cough again. When he gets his breath back, he answers, "I know."

* * *

The penny doesn't drop.

It doesn't happen when Ducky confirms that Tony's got the plague.

It doesn't happen when Gibbs hunts down the bitch responsible, points a gun at a security guard, and interrogates a scientist with excessive force.

It doesn't happen because Gibbs should have known.

It's been right there, _the whole time_ , and he's apparently just chosen not to see it.

And yeah, he's pissed, and he and Tony are going to have a very serious talk down the line, but Gibbs doesn't know if he can blame Tony for hiding. In this world. With all the shit they've seen. With all the terrible things that could happen.

The worst part, in the end, isn't that Tony never told him. It's that Gibbs has somehow given him a reason to not.

* * *

Tony knows when he's well and truly dying. He's reminded of _The Stand_ mini-series, and somehow he always thought he'd be Molly Ringwald but instead he's the dad she has to bury in the back yard. It's a letdown, honestly. And not just because there's too much crap in his lungs for him to have any inspirational last words. He's coughing a lot now. Too much. He can't breathe. And he knows it's getting _bad_ bad when they finally get Kate to leave.

So this is it, then. Alone in a hospital bed. Blue lights. No television.

And then there's Gibbs.

Marching into the room.

Guns metaphorically blazing.

Tony can smell him, still, with all this. That shouldn't be possible. And it takes him a moment to realize that his suppressants have already started wearing off, making Tony's senses sharper than they have been in a long while. Which means if he comes close enough, Gibbs will finally scent him, too. And Tony can't stop him this time.

Gibbs bends down next to Tony's bed, and even though everything hurts and sucks and is generally a world of pain, Tony can see the moment Gibbs catches his scent. His mouth drops a little, and his pupils flutter as he tries to reign in that damn impulse Tony felt three years ago. Tony can see the gears fall into place in Gibbs' mind. He can see all the dots connecting. Gibbs' lips quirk a bit, somewhere between sad and angry and hopelessly amused.

He says, " _You will not die_."

And damn. If Tony is going to have any last words, they're sure as hell going to be, "On it, boss."


	5. Part V

**Part V: Home**

Tony snaps out of whatever haze he's been in around day three. Breathing still sucks, everything still hurts, but he can stay awake longer than five minutes, so that's something. Gibbs isn't there when he wakes up, but Palmer—of all people—is sitting next to his bed with a book of crossword puzzles. He's wearing one of his brown plaid shirts and high-waisted pants that make him look like he took a wrong turn in the 1970's, and when he sees that Tony is awake, he pauses and rubs a knuckle over his nose nervously before adjusting his glasses. His smile is wide and fake, all nerves, when he says, "Hey, Tony. How ya feelin'?"

"Like I almost died," Tony says. His voice is scratchy, throat filled with so much gunk that he has to clear it a few times before saying, "No offense, Palmer, but why are you here?"

Palmer's smile twitches. "Oh, well. Gibbs didn't want you waking up alone, so we're all taking shifts."

Tony sighs and closes his eyes. "And I got _you_."

"Yes?"

He opens his eyes again, resigned. "Alright, autopsy gremlin. How bad is it."

Jimmy squirms in his seat like an excited little nerd on exam day. "Well, the doctors say your recovery is going nicely. You'll have a regimen of medications for a while, and you might need to start wearing more scarves in the winter, but-"

" _No_ , Palmer," Tony says with exaggerated patience. "I mean the elephant in the room. Notice anything about my scent?"

"Oh!" Palmer pushes up his glasses and laughs nervously. "That. Yeah, um...so, Kate is cool with it, but she'll probably be pranking you soon because, and this is a quote, 'you're an asshole for telling her she was wrong.' McGee is cool with it, and I think he's bought you like a thousand books on omega empowerment."

"Great."

"It's a really good selection, actually." Tony raises an eyebrow. Palmer coughs into his hand. "So, Abby is just happy you're alive. And Doctor Mallard is pretty miffed you never told him. Like, really mad. But I think if you play the 'almost died' card, he'll get over it pretty quickly."

"And Gibbs?"

Palmer's eyes widen. "Oh, Gibbs doesn't talk to me. But you aren't fired. So that's something."

Tony laughs a little, then coughs, then says, "Having a job is great, but not when Gibbs hates you."

Palmer frowns. "He doesn't hate you. At least, I don't think so. He's offered to drive you home today. That's good, right?"

Tony sighs and closes his eyes. Everything in him aches already without thinking about Gibbs. "Yeah," he says, _not_ pouting, okay. He's not. "He offered so he can yell at me."

The last thing he hears is an amused huff from Palmer, and "Get some sleep, Tony." before he does, finally, drift back off.

* * *

Tony wakes up again and the sun is setting outside of his windows, bathing the room in orange and yellow. He notices this first, and the scent second. He turns his head toward the door, and sure enough there's Gibbs, leaning against the doorframe and drinking coffee and staring at Tony with tired lines at the edges of his eyes. He's dressed like he just came from work, which he probably did, white crewneck under a black blazer that probably, like his jeans, came from Sears (Tony is not, for the record, making this up. He's been in Gibbs' closet. He's seen the receipts). Gibbs sips his coffee, giving Tony a moment to say something if wants, but he doesn't. The word 'sorry' just doesn't fucking cut it in this situation, and he knows it.

Gibbs sighs a little, then says, "How you feelin', DiNozzo?"

Tony opens his mouth to say, _"Never better, Boss. Just another day at the office."_ But that comes out is "Nev-" and a tickling stream of ragged coughs. Gibbs walks over to the small tray by Tony's bed, sets down his coffee, and unscrews the cap on a bottle of water. Then he picks up each one of the five little prescription bottles and squints at it until he finds the one he wants. Tony starts breathing in shallow, fearful breaths (because, damn, his lungs hurt. Did he inhale _glass_?) and grips the railing on his bed so tight that Gibbs practically has to pry his fingers off it just to hand him the pills.

"Cough suppressant," Gibbs says. "You're due."

Tony tosses the pills in his mouth and takes the water bottle. Gibbs continues, "You've also got some pain meds, anti-inflammatories, and I don't know what the other two are, but you need to take 'em every four hours."

Tony swallows the water hard and hands the bottle back. He mutters, "Thanks." And relaxes back into the pillows. He knows it's pathetic, but he can't bring himself to look Gibbs in the eye.

Gibbs knows it, because he frowns and bends himself sideways until his face is level with Tony's, his gray eyebrows curled up in question. Tony's own face pinches with worry and guilt and shame and god knows what else. There's a running dialogue humming in the back of his mind of: _don't hate me don't hate me don't hate me_. Gibbs sighs as if he hears it and straightens up, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut just before a warm hand rests on his head, gently petting down his short brown hair and squeezing firmly on his neck. Tony's eyes flutter open in surprise and he finally looks Gibbs in the face. Gibbs just looks tired and sad and surprisingly old, even though he's not. Tony badgered up his birth certificate last year. Ten years isn't that much.

Gibbs' hand falls away, and he says softly, "We gotta get you up and dressed. It's checkout time. C'mon."

Tony trembles as he pulls himself up by the bed rail and slowly brings his legs over the edge. Gibbs goes to a corner of the room where someone, at some point, had put Tony's go-bag and digs out a change of plainclothes. Judging by the black shirt, jacket, boxers, and sweatpants, Abby was the one volun-told to raid his apartment. _Good old Abby_ , he thinks. _Bringing darkness and smiles to everyone_. Gibbs turns around while Tony changes, and Tony hates that he almost asks Gibbs for help because standing is so not an awesome deal right now. His whole body feels fragile, like paper and toothpicks, and the trembling is almost out of control when he has to stand to slide into his boxers and sweats. He barely gets them both on before flopping back to the bed, panting like he just ran a marathon which just makes him cough again for a minute.

Gibbs turns, sees that he's dressed, then opens the door. There's a wheelchair in the hall. Tony groans. "No way. I can walk."

"Yes 'way.'" Gibbs says. He grabs the black handles and rolls the chair inside, right up to Tony's feet. "Get in."

Tony's face pulls into a pleading stare. It's stupid. He knows it's stupid. But putting himself into a position of being _literally_ dragged around by an alpha so soon after...well, the scent thing...just makes his skin crawl. "I can walk or crawl, but like hell are you rolling me out in that chair."

Gibbs stares at him a second, blue eyes doing the squinty looking-into-your-soul-and-judging-you thing. Then he says, "Ten minutes."

"What?"

"Best case, it'll take about ten minutes to walk down the hall, sign you out, then get you down to the parking garage and into the car. If you can stand up for ten minutes, you can walk or crawl your way to the car. If you can't, your ass gets in this chair. Deal?"

"Deal." Like Tony can say no to a bet.

Tony gently eases himself back onto his feet. His legs shake, but he doesn't feel dizzy or anything, so he stays upright pretty well. One minute. Then the shaking gets worse. Gibbs looks at his watch and shifts a few steps to the side, so the chair won't get in his way if he needs to play catch. Three minutes. Tony's breathing is loud and labored and tickling at what will definitely turn into a long cough. He reaches back a hand for the bed rail, then catches himself. No cheating. Four minutes. Every muscle in his legs aches and quivers. The last time he felt like this, he was trying to outrun Kate in Anacostia Park. She wasn't quick, but her endurance was superhuman. Tony still thinks she got bitten by a radioactive spider as a kid. Or struck by lightning. Or _something_. Five minutes. On the dot, the painful tickling in Tony's lungs turns into a cough. His knees buckle. Gibbs grabs him by the arms and guides him into the chair. He doesn't let go until Tony's cough subsides.

"Alright?" Gibbs asks. His thumbs rub circles on Tony's arms before he moves to pull away, and Tony almost doesn't let him go. Gibbs, this close, overpowers the scent of disinfectant and curdling sterility. He smells like safety and home and all those other things Tony didn't have as a kid. Tony sniffs Gibbs' collar quickly (and he hopes unnoticeably) before leaning back in the wheelchair.

"Yeah," Tony answers, voice gruff. "You win, boss."

Gibbs walks around and grabs the chair handles. He's a surprisingly gentle driver. "Just tryin' to keep you from passing out in the elevator, DiNozzo. Then you'd be stuck here for another day."

"See, if you'd led with that, we could've avoided the whole bet thing."

"Yeah?" Gibbs says, smirking. "Where's the fun in that?"

Tony laughs, and he can almost forget that there's something they both aren't talking about.

* * *

Tony naps on the ride home. He doesn't mean to, really. His head tilts to the side first, and then his eyes droop...blink...droop. And then somehow he's asleep with his head leaning against both his shoulder and the window, his dreams flashing with the lights as they pass by. If he was awake, he probably would argue with Gibbs missing one turn and then the next. He probably would say a few more, 'I'm fine's when they turn onto a familiar suburban street. But as it is, Tony is still mostly unconscious when Gibbs parks on the driveway of his achingly domestic house and coaxes Tony out of the car with, "C'mon. We're home."

And Tony is so tired, feeling so much like death (a joke which, by the way, Gibbs does not appreciate), that even just the word 'home' has him slumping in relief, made worse only in that Gibbs says _we're home_. As if it's Tony's. As if it's _theirs_.

"Upstairs. Lets go."

Tony, half blind because he can hardly keep his eyes open, makes a grumbled complaint about Gibbs half-dragging him up the staircase, but the effort is worth it when he finally hits the soft, quilted bed that smells like sawdust and Gibbs. He turns his face into the pillow, smiles, and hums contentedly. Gibbs huffs a laugh.

"I'll be on the couch. If you need anything, just call."

"Hmm...wait, Gibbs." Tony forces himself awake. A tiny, trembling thread of awareness. He opens his eyes just enough to reach out and grab Gibbs' hand. And he can't...think. There are things he should say, apologize for, explain, but one thing that he and Gibbs have in common is that neither of them can ever talk about anything that matters. So Tony just helplessly tugs Gibbs closer and squeezes his hand.

Gibbs squeezes back. His other hand brushes over Tony's hair, and then there is, astonishingly, a warm kiss just above Tony's ear.

Then, "Goodnight, DiNozzo."

And the warmth and Gibbs are gone. No reassurance. No rejection.

Tony doesn't dream, but even when he's asleep, a shivering cold anxiety has him curling up in a ball, trying desperately to keep the fading warmth of the kiss inside.


	6. Part VI

**Part VI: It Goes Like This**

It goes like this:

There's the Director and Gibbs and a bottle of scotch. After a hard case, they share a drink and talk about anything other than death and violence. Sometimes it's about golfing, sometimes it's about the brand of hand saw they prefer, and sometimes it's about Gibbs' propensity to drive away every partner he's been assigned.

"They aren't chew toys," Morrow says. "And you can't expect them to live up to Mike."

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "I never said I did."

Morrow eyes him critically from across the mahogany desk and swishes his glass. Gibbs, if possible, relaxes more into his chair. Arrogant, Morrow will think. Unconcerned. But Gibbs knows exactly how much he's been toeing the line with this revolving door of probies. It's never been that he expects them to live up to Mike. Nobody can. The problem is that Gibbs doesn't trust the ladder-climbing gleam in their eyes. They're so young that they can't keep their eyes on the ball in front of them. Their so young that they're still spending time looking at someone else's court. He can't trust someone with his life if they can't focus on what's about to smack them in the face.

Morrow sighs and sets down his glass. "You only get to choose one more, Gibbs. In the mean time, you're on undercover duty. Clear?"

Gibbs smirks wryly and lifts his glass. "Clear."

* * *

It goes like this:

Gibbs needs to get arrested. He needs street cred. He's too far removed (hell, growing up in the small town that he did, he's _always_ been too far removed) from the young and thuggish crowd to earn their trust on his own. He has to show his solidarity. The only thing he doesn't plan for, really, is Tony DiNozzo, whose face lights up like the last street light on a new moon, green eyes shimmering in humor and smile enveloping his lean, tanned face. DiNozzo, with his naïve earnestness. Like a dog determined to eat the squirrel, even though he can't climb the tree. A child with the determination of a pitbull.

The moment the kid faces his own partner about his mistakes, the moment the kid _lets his partner go_ , Gibbs thinks there's no way he can get so lucky. But he can, because DiNozzo takes the bait. DiNozzo is his. And Gibbs from then on always thinks, in the back of his mind, _if only he was an omega. If only, if only._

* * *

It goes like this:

DiNozzo is handsome, but that's not what catches Gibbs' attention.

DiNozzo is capable.

There is a term, called the Code Hero, from Ernest Hemingway. The Code Hero lives by a set of rules, much like Gibbs, but the Code Hero doesn't speak about them. He is, effortlessly, a "man's man." He drinks, he sleeps around, and he fights for life as if it is everything in the world to him. He can face death as if he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. And another phrase comes from that, the real requirement of the Hero: _grace under pressure._ When Gibbs first hears about this in grade school, he immediately wants to shape himself into this hero. But the Code Hero, by definition, can't be made. Even now Gibbs is often too gruff under pressure. Too much of a Gunny. But Tony, with his smiles and slick words and smooth, quick movements...

Tony has grace.

* * *

It goes like this:

When Tony's scent hits his nose, any anger in Gibbs leaves him. He's heard before, probably from Ducky, about the pacifying effect a mate's scent can have, but he's never really believed it until the moment all his frustration and resentment dissolve into relief. That's all he's got left. Everyone is staring at him with wide eyes, waiting for the ball to drop, and it never will. Gibbs has lost everything once. Gibbs has married his best friend who smelled like sugar and had a daughter who always, for some reason, smelled like musky grass, and he's stood on their graves, helplessly inhaling air, trying to remember exactly what they smelled like.

So the ball never drops.

Gibbs sets up a routine of visitors so Tony is never alone. Gibbs memorizes all the medications Tony has to take and when. Gibbs makes sure the bedroom of his house is stocked with water bottles and cough drops, and he even drags his little tube TV up onto the dresser. Gibbs drives Tony home, and he tries not to think about when he started considering it their home instead of his. Gibbs looks at Tony, half-asleep and nuzzling the scent of Gibbs' bed with the most typical omega contentment, and he wonders how he could've missed it. He goes to the couch that night, and he doesn't sleep for the feeling of guilt in his chest.

* * *

It goes like this:

Tony gets up the next morning. Gibbs is already in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, when the footsteps slowly, haggardly, with pausing stutters, make their way downstairs. Gibbs forces himself to stay seated at the table instead of rushing up to help. Tony eventually staggers in, and he sits pointedly across from Gibbs, within eyesight, out of reach. He smells a little less like death, but he's pale. He's thinner than he should be. His chest is heaving just from the walk from the bedroom to here, and he's got a look in his eye like he's waiting for Gibbs to stick a knife in him. It's too much. Gibbs slides over the plate of toast.

Tony glances at the plate. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, and he curls forward like he's been punched. "Gibbs?"

Gibbs sighs a little. He hates talking about things, but there is one point, still, he needs to get across. The rest of it doesn't matter.

He doesn't mean for his voice to be so soft. He doesn't mean to sound unsure. But he does. "Do you trust me?"

Tony chokes, stutters, "Look, when we met—"

"No, Tony." Gibbs tries to harden his stare. Fails. Tries again. "I mean now, moving forward. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Immediate. Earnest.

Gibbs nods. "Okay."

He pushes forward the plate of eggs and bacon and lifts up the newspaper so he can read. He hears a huff as Tony laughs, and Gibbs, behind his paper, smiles.

* * *

So you see, it goes like this:

Gibbs never stood a chance.


End file.
